Saturday, May 09, 2009

... or so last night's episode of my recurring dream would seem to indicate.

We were looking round a house with a view to buying it. The rooms were enormous ... a dining room the size of a tennis court, with a glassed, conservatory style roof; a kitchen the length of a cricket pitch with scads of storage space, every conceivable cooking appliance, and a walk-in, room-sized fridge (!); and a gigantic living area. I don't remember looking at the bedrooms. Bizarrely, this palatial abode was on the market for a price little more than our current home, which I explained to myself was because it only had four bedrooms. And no garden. I was utterly smitten with all this space, and knew we absolutely had to buy this house. By the time I woke up I was busily downplaying all the downsides - needs a new boiler? No big deal! Will cost a fortune to heat? No, no ... all that glass will keep it warm. We hadn't sold our house yet? Surely it would sell quickly!

Much better than the dream I had last night of Sophie plummeting from a hundred foot drop. I saw her go over the edge in her pink striped pajamas and knew there was no way she'd survive the fall. That image of her laying at the bottom has been haunting me all day.